


Prodigal

by IntensionSuspension



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adult Fear, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angband, Angbang if You Squint, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Dark, Deconstruction, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Creepy, Fall of Gondolin, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mind Manipulation, Missing Persons, Morgoth is His Own Warning, Psychological Torture, Sadism, Sauron is His Own Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25922011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntensionSuspension/pseuds/IntensionSuspension
Summary: Maeglin does not yield under torture, it changes very little.
Relationships: Idril Celebrindal/Tuor, Maeglin | Lómion & Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor, Maeglin | Lómion & Turgon of Gondolin, Maeglin| Lómion & Sauron| Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor & Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	Prodigal

Maeglin cannot see where the orcs are dragging him. The tunnels are pitch black, and even his keen eyes cannot pierce through the surrounding darkness. He knows they cannot see either, and surmises that they must know the passages by either touch or memory.

His musing is a welcome distraction for the short few minutes that it takes them to reach their destination, a room lit by a simmering glow at the end of the next bend in the passageway. Something begins to constrict Maeglin’s heart as he stumbles through the threshold of the grand room, and he feels his pulse begin to thrash like it is some wild beast against his ribcage. Maeglin would laugh something hateful - _Why are you like this already? He has not even laid his hands upon you how do you expect to be brave if you can't even -_ but he cannot even breathe, and the scream dies in his throat.

Maeglin does gasp out a breath when the orcs shove him to his knees. He returns to himself somewhat, and his eyes furtively scan the room. He cannot tell where the light source originates, for the low glow seems to permeate every inch of the room. Is it a chandelier? A lamp? Maeglin does not know. He cannot will himself to raise his head up to see, even as his eyes watch the room from their low vantage point, veiled behind the black curtain of his hair.

The young smith’s heart rate has barely slowed when he is made aware of a terrible presence looming before him. How it had hidden itself, he shudders to imagine, for the being is of such enormity that his malice now fills the hall from its low stone floors to the tops of its highest ceilings. Maeglin shuts his eyes and trembles, curling further into himself, so that the top of his head is nearly pressed against the cold floor.

It is then that a great, booming voice speaks out from a place that seems miles above the young elf. So deep and cruel is this snarl, that it shakes the very walls of the throne room. Maeglin does not recognize the words that are spoken, but he knows from the voice alone whose court he has been brought before. He knows that the truth of this is far more terrible than any of his naneth’s stories could have prepared him for.

One of the orcs standing behind him responds in that same crippled language, and he is grabbed again by the shoulders, while another filthy hand winds itself through his hair and wrenches his head back. Maeglin is immediately blinded by a startling white light. The radiance is focused upon two points, whose outlines burn their afterimages into the backs of Maeglin’s eyelids when he struggles to blink. His eyes are slow to adjust, as they were in gleaming Gondolin, and tears well in his eyes from the irritation, if not his consuming terror. 

Once they do manage to adjust, his eyes perceive two more pools of light below the first two, cold and malevolent. When those pools move minutely to match his stare, his own eyes widen in dawning horror as he realizes what he is looking at. Two pale irises, too lifeless to be blue, encircled by bloodshot sclera and bruised flesh that does not sleep. Below them there emits a low chuckle, spoken in Sindarin,

“Hello there, little one.”

Maeglin screams.

Above him, there is another laugh, almost fatherly, like Morgoth is going to ruffle Maeglin’s hair, “There we go. I was beginning to think he was mute. That would not do at all.” 

He turns his gaze away from Maeglin and barks at the orcs again in that same strange language. Both of them release Maeglin from their grasp and stalk off, disappearing down the passageway. Even though he is no longer being held in place, the young smith cannot tear his eyes away from the awful visage of the being above him.

Now, Maeglin knows he is not being spoken to, he is being spoken of. He is used to it. That is when Morgoth’s conversation partner reveals himself, and the low orange glow of the room brightens like a hearthfire thrown kindling. Maeglin’s reeling mind questions this - _How is he the light source and not the silmarils? They are so much brighter and he only glows so lowly, it does not make sense, it should not be possible that is not how lighting and shadows work none of this makes sense none of this is real when will I wake in my bed and when will everything make sense again I don’t -_ Maeglin is caught in circling thoughts, as he is prone to do when his breath won’t come and his heart convulses like a dying thing. He does not notice that the fiery being has approached him from the side, as his gaze is still fixed on Morgoth.

A new hand catches in his hair, and another snaps his jaw shut before he can scream. He whimpers, and the Maia shushes him. If his mind had not gone blank with terror, sharp Maeglin may have noticed that Sauron’s hands were calloused much like his own.

Sauron peers down at him,“So, Master. This is our proverbial key to the kingdom? He is hardly more than an elfling.”

Morgoth raises his chin from where it had been resting on his fist. Languidly, he sits up, and gestures towards them with his hand, “But Mairon, you above all should know that it is the young who break most sweetly and utterly; and that they are the ones who are easiest to bring under sway. They have no wisdom nor experience, and they are fragile. They are what brings everyone else down.” 

Sauron nods solemnly, “You would think that Gondolin would take better care of their children, and ensure that they do not lose their way. Though, I suppose it is impossible to save everyone, King Turgon could not save his wife, afterall.” He punctuates this by lowering his hand to grip the collar of Maeglin’s tunic, “What a shame it would be then, if he were to also lose his sister-son.”

Maeglin jolts and gasps out, “How did you know?”

Sauron smiles, “Because you have just told me.”

Maeglin’s face falls when he realizes his error, but he grits his teeth and blinks away his frightened tears as an emotion other than terror surfaces to the forefront of his mind. Rage. How dare these creatures speak of him as if he is not even in the room, as if he is a witless infant without independent thought? Mocking him by speaking in his native tongue. How dare they place the blame for Gondolin’s fall upon him as if it is a foregone conclusion? He will not break, he won’t. If not for his people’s sake then let it at least be to prove them all wrong; be they elves in Gondolin or ghouls in Angband. He won’t break he won’t -

“That is enough, Lieutenant. We know who he is now, without a shadow of a doubt. Would you please bring him here, I would like to make my proposition now.”

Sauron bows and sweeps Maeglin off his knees, hooking his hands under the young elf’s armpits. He carries Maeglin up the dais and to the foot of Morgoth’s throne. When Morgoth holds out his hands, Sauron lifts Maeglin into them. Morgoth eyes the trembling elf in his hands appraisingly, “My,” he says, “You are shaking like a leaf.” He tilts his head and smiles, “Would you like to make a deal with me? If you tell my lieutenant and I the precise location of Gondolin and how best we might break through its gates, I will let you leave this place with your life, and I will not harm a hair upon your head before you leave us.” Morgoth reacts to Maeglin’s silence by looking deeper into his wide sable eyes, “How about I do you one better, little elf. I will grant you one wish, your greatest desire. You needn't tell me yourself, since you are so shy. I will know it soon, regardless, so it is no inconvenience to me.” He shakes Maeglin, “So, what is your answer?”

There is a weak rasp, “No…”

“What was that? Speak up now. I didn’t hear you.”

Louder this time, “No.”

“Ah? Please speak louder, little Lómion. You are so quiet.”

“No! No! I shan’t tell you the location of Gondolin. Not for anything!” cries Maeglin.

“Not for anything? Oh Lómion, don’t you know what will happen if you don’t tell us how to find Gondolin? Tell him what will happen Mairon.” 

“Why, he will lose his life, but he will not die.” says Sauron.

“Oh?” Morgoth says, smiling. “How does that work?”

Sauron straightens, and clasps his hands, “ First, we would have to cut the tendons in his heels, so he could not run. Then, we would have to crush his ribs, so he would breathe crookedly and shallowly. After that, his skin must be flayed from his back and his breast, so he would no longer be able to enjoy fine clothing or the shining sun. And after that, we must snip the ligaments of his hands, so he cannot create - “

“I trust you will not touch his eyes or his tongue, Lieutenant, for those are the parts of him that I have come to cherish. How dreadful it would be to no longer see those starless black eyes nor hear that whimpering voice.

Sauron nods, “Then I would not touch those parts of him, Master. Not that I would need to. Really, what would the boy have to live for, if I took away his ability to run through the forest, to smith, or to enjoy the comforts of his shining home? It would be no life at all, and so that life would end. But he would not die. Not at all. Instead I would lock him away in our darkest dungeon’s darkest cell, and I would leave him there until Arda was unmade. Would that please you, Master?”

“That would please me very much, Little Flame. You have learned so well. But it will not be necessary, as long as Lómion decides to work with us. What do you say, little smith? Have you changed your mind?”

The young nér does not say anything, and he cannot help the tears that slide down his cheeks, for Maeglin who was wise in counsel knew that he would lose his life no matter what he chose or what Morgoth deigned to promise him.

“Really, little one?” says Morgoth, who jostles him as he speaks, “You are willing to give up everything; your joy, your comfort, your passion, your _very_ life for those who would never save you in return?” When Maeglin tenses up, Morgoth grins sharply and continues, “Many in Gondolin respect you Lómion, begrudgingly, perhaps. But they do. They admire your skill in your chosen craft. You are a weaponsmith, right? The greatest of Gondolin, Eru be damned, the greatest of Middle-earth! Now with your father gone, that is. Yes, you have made them many pretty blades. Yet you are so young, little smith. You are a prodigy. Tell me, how old are you?” 

When Maeglin fails to respond Morgoth squeezes him, “Oh come on now, Lómion. This little secret will do nothing to imperil those in Gondolin, I am merely curious.” Maeglin is still silent, so Morgoth squeezes him harder.

Finally, Maeglin grits out, “One hundred and eighty-three.”

Morgoth’s eyes widen, and he knits his brows. He loosens his grasp on Maeglin, who lets out a hoarse gasp. After a moment he says, “Oh, Lómion. You are _very_ young. It is such a shame then, that no one living loves you.”

This is enough to set Maeglin off, and, thinking of Turgon, he shrieks, “That is not true! There are those in Gondolin whose hearts I am very dear to!” Maeglin begins to squirm and kick in the Dark Lord’s grasp, shouting expletives that would make a balrog blush.

Morgoth blinks in surprise, but then his gaze darkens considerably, and he tightens his grip on Maeglin, shaking him and saying, “Enough of this Lómion, you are acting childish! A youth you may be, but you are old enough now to not lie to yourself. You are not dearest to the hearts of anyone in Gondolin, not even your uncle. Can you imagine if the princess were here in your stead? All the armies of Gondolin would be banging at the gates of Angband! Yet here we are. You have been here for a week, little elf, and there has not been so much as a peep at my doorstep.”

Maeglin stills in Morgoth’s grasp as he hears this, and grinds his teeth. He seethes because he knows there is truth to what Morgoth says, and that he is not the one dearest to Turgon’s heart, nor anyone’s. Especially not Idril, though he dearly wishes that were the case. 

He will never be loved best by anyone, now.

The thought is nearly enough to make him give into despair.

“I think you were loved once though, little one. Very dearly. You had a mother and a father, didn’t you? I think you were the one dearest to their hearts. Hm, but you were partial to your mother, weren’t you? You loved her stories best of all. Did she ever warn you of me? Oh well, it is no matter. She is gone now, and you will never see her again.”

_Mother._

Maeglin unclenches his teeth, and looks Morgoth in the eyes, “No.”

“No?” Morgoth raises an eyebrow.

“No, I’m not telling you.”

“Not telling me what?”

“I am not telling you the location of Gondolin.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely sure?”

“Yes!”

“Ah, well then,” says Morgoth, “That’s too bad. We will have to do this the other way then. Mairon, could you hold him for me? You know how hard it is to concentrate while they’re wriggling in your hands.”

“Of course, Master.” says Sauron, who swoops in to lift Maeglin up and out of Morgoth’s hands, and into his own. He braces the young elf against his chest. 

Ever since Maeglin had entered the throne room, there has been a low hum in the back of his mind, ringing lowly within his inner ears. He had not had much of an opportunity to question it at the time, his mind paralyzed as it was. The small part of him that was cognizant had attributed it to the cavernous echoing of the massive hall. He realizes that assessment was false when the humming becomes louder as Morgoth moves to cover his face with his outstretched hand. Maeglin tries desperately to squirm out of reach of that scarred, rotting hand, but Sauron pinches a nerve somewhere in his back, and he falls limp.

Morgoth’s clawed hand is large enough to completely cover Maeglin’s head, and the young elf must hold back a sob as his face presses up against that hideous palm. Then Maeglin experiences a jolt of sharp, agonizing pain, like needles are being shoved into his brain, piercing through the protective barrier of his skull. The humming is so loud now, and so deep inside his head, that it might have been a figment of his imagination, if it weren’t for the blinding pain it induced. Maeglin’s muffled wailing rises to a deafening shriek as Morgoth adjusts his grip and redoubles his focus.

Unbidden, random thoughts and memories began to spring forth in Maeglin’s mind. Thoughts of home, of what home means, of Nan Elmoth and Gondolin. Thoughts of how to navigate, how to navigate his way _towards_ home. Morgoth claws his homing instinct to pieces and _tears_ out what he wants.

Maeglin’s voice had broken during his last scream, and now he can only sob quietly as Morgoth picks at his brain. There is not much pain anymore, only numbness. Maeglin is hardly even conscious by the time Morgoth retrieves the last bits of information that he wants, something about the way the seventh gate of Gondolin was constructed, and how best it might be torn down. Finally, he releases Maeglin’s head from his grasp. The elf’s head falls forward, and he hangs limp in Sauron’s hands.

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

Maeglin is silent.

“Ah, that bad then. Well, little elf, now you know better than to disobey me as you did. For what good it will do you now, remember that things could have been different between us. I could have made you a king, Lómion. I could have made _her_ love you.”

Maeglin is silent still, and Morgoth sighs.

“What would you like me to do with him, Master?” says Sauron.

“I think you should make good on your promise, Lieutenant. Lómion should lose his life. I will call on you to retrieve him when I have need of him again, but before that, he is yours. As for me? I have plans to begin drafting. You are dismissed.”

The Torturer of Angband bows, and turns to walk out into the darkness of the tunnels, carrying hearthlight and young Maeglin with him.

Idril sighs and sets down her book, unable to concentrate. Instead she slides out of bed and walks over to the main window of her and Tuor’s bedroom, which offers a scenic view of the white city. Late as it is, the kingdom is now dark and sleepy, with only a few street lamps lighting its roads.

Eärendil had been put to bed an hour before, and was just now seeming to have gotten over his bout of colic, which had been a relief to both his parents and his nursemaids. Tuor is still in the washroom brushing his teeth. That day had been exhausting, and they were going to bed early that night. The seventh day of the search and rescue operation had turned up nothing, and many in Gondolin were calling for the search to be cancelled altogether, citing the chance of discovery by Morgoth’s forces too great a risk.

Maeglin had been missing for a couple weeks at least by this point, and many, including Turgon, were losing hope of ever finding him. The lords and ladies of the council had many opinions regarding what had happened to the elf. Some suggested that he had followed the same path as his mother Aredhel, and ran off into the wilderness because he was discontent in Gondolin. It was really no surprise, they said. You saw how he moped about, how he hid from the sunlight. He was not born in the light of Valinor, nor any light at all. Nan Elmoth is perpetually dark, he must have felt very out of place here. No, I am not surprised. 

Others suggested that he was angry that Turgon had controversially allowed Huor and Húrin the option to leave Gondolin after their visit when his father Eöl had only been offered a death sentence. Turgon listened to this in silence, his brows furrowed and his mouth pulled into a tight frown. Some, including Idril, had questioned this line of reasoning, as it had been many years since their visit, and if Maeglin was so upset, he ought to have made the decision to leave soon after the actual incident. Still others said that his voluntary participation in the ill-fated Nirnaeth Arnoediad soon after their visit also called this line of reasoning into question, as such an act of patriotism would not make sense if he was completely disillusioned with Gondolin.

Those that knew Maeglin best, the miners of the House of the Mole and those of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, were deeply skeptical of these theories. They claimed that such actions would have been out of character for the young smith, who, while intense and taciturn, was deeply dedicated to Gondolin and to his House. It was more likely, they suggested, that Maeglin had snuck out to mine in the encircling mountains beyond the walls of Gondolin, even though Turgon had forbidden it since Tuor’s arrival. They said his favorite iron ores had been depleted in their own mountains, and that it was possible he had grown impatient enough to disobey Turgon. They feared something terrible had befallen Maeglin, and that he was in grave danger. Perhaps a mine collapse, or fall that had resulted in a broken leg. 

There was a worst case scenario on the backs of everyone’s minds, and only Rog, Lord of the House of the Hammer of Wrath, who had been a thrall of Morgoth himself, was brave enough to suggest such a possibility to the king; that Maeglin had been taken by the Enemy. Turgon was horrified to think of such a thing happening to his nephew - even though he had privately considered it himself - and had organized a search party the day after their second meeting, against the counsel of some of his most trusted advisors. 

Initially, Turgon had suggested that he and Rog should lead the party, but at the insistence of his councilmembers, he had chosen for Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, to lead in his stead. It was seen as too great of a security risk for the king to be out of the city walls for any length of time unless it was absolutely necessary. Although Tuor’s call for them to retreat to the Havens of Sirion at Ulmo’s behest had not been heeded, they had blocked off the city’s secret entrances and were in general far more isolationist and wary than before. The only hidden entrance that still stood was Idril’s, and she was silent of this fact, lest a pair of unsavory ears were to hear of its existence. 

Given that Gondolin had become so strict in its travel policies, the fact that a sizable search party was being sent out into Echoriad was in itself seen as highly controversial. Still, the opportunity to find a lost or injured prince was considered to be worth the risk. 

That had been days ago, and correspondence between Turgon and the search party through the eagles has painted a grim outlook regarding their chances of ever finding the young elf. They had found no trace of him anywhere, and even Maeglin’s favorite mine Anghabar seemed to be completely deserted.

Privately, Idril wonders if Maeglin may have run off because he had been upset by Earendil’s birth, that it had been too much for him. She knew that the elf had desired her for many years, and that he had been crestfallen when she and Tuor had begun to court, and eventually married. Although he had attended their wedding ceremony, he had been sullen and withdrawn during the entirety of it, and had only congratulated them on their marriage when Turgon had walked him up to greet them. Although his quiet voice had seemed sincere, she had noted that there was an odd glint in his unnerving black eyes, and that she did not care for it. 

A part of Idril is relieved that Maeglin is gone. She feels guilty for it, because while the younger elf was strange and uncomfortable to be around for long periods of time due to his obvious infatuation, he had never been unkind to her and was not truly the little snot that some of the Gondolindrim whispered that he was. Even so, she cannot help but feel that a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, now that the dark cloud of her cousin is no longer floating around the city. 

Idril is distracted from her musing when Tuor walks up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist.

He kisses her cheek and says, “Trouble reading tonight?”

Idril sighs, “Yes..”

“Worrying about how the search and rescue is going?”

“Of course. We were at the same meeting, you know that they’ve found nothing so far. I can’t help but think that such a thing is a bad omen.”

Tuor nods, “This is a bad time for anyone to go missing, but the fact that it was a member of the Noldorin royal family…” 

“I certainly hope that he has simply run off somewhere, yet a part of me fears the worst.” Says Idril, as she leans back into Tuor’s chest.

“I do not blame you for fearing the worst. Ulmo’s warning was quite clear, and I cannot help but think that his disappearance is linked to the Doom of Mandos. How is the tunnel?”

“Still intact and still hidden, though I admit that the one I was most worried about hearing of it is the very one who has gone missing. I do not know if this should dispel my doubts, or inflame them.”

“I’m not sure either, Idril. But I think it would be best if we stay on our guard regardless. I fear that Gondolin’s days may be numbered no matter what we do now, and that we should continue to prepare for an evacuation. As for Maeglin, he will either turn up or he won’t, we have done all that we can for him now. If he deserves the suspicion that his odd behavior has roused in us, then I think the truth of it will be revealed sooner or later.”

Idril hums, and says, “Perhaps you are right, it is just that I find it frustrating to feel so powerless in these uncertain times. I would like to have all the answers, yet alas, I do not.”

Tuor smiles, “That sounds just like you, princess. Fiercely determined to stay in control and do the right thing. Come to bed?”

  
  


Idril smiles in return, “Yes, love. Just give me a moment.” Tuor lifts his hands from her waist and heads back to their bed. Idril continues to stare out over the city for a few moments longer, and then slips away to join him.

The search party continued their efforts for several more days, yet they never did find a single trace of the missing prince. Rog had insisted that they continue their search farther out into the encircling mountains, but at the urging of the council, he had eventually acquiesced.

Turgon would later on send letters to the other surviving elven kingdoms asking if they had seen any sign of the smith, yet all would report back that they had not seen a wink of him. The official story then became that Maeglin had returned to his birthplace of Nan Elmoth, as he had become dissatisfied with Gondolin, not unlike his mother. This explanation was purported even though Dior himself had never seen Maeglin in his court, and as far as he knew, Nan Elmoth had been abandoned after Eöl had been killed. When Doriath fell in 506, and still Maeglin did not surface, many more began to fear the worst. Still, Turgon made no public mention of the increasing likelihood of his nephew’s demise, and to all outward appearances acted as if the boy was living alone in the woods of a fallen kingdom. It was not until several years later that Gondolin would learn what had become of their erstwhile prince.

Sauron is working in his forge when a messenger comes with the news that Morgoth requests his counsel. He smiles at this development, with his too-sharp teeth, and waves the orc off. 

He is nearly giddy when he saunters into the throne room, and there is a bounce in his step when he bows before Morgoth. 

“I am at your service, Master.”

“At ease, Lieutenant. Are the troops ready?”

Sauron rises to stand at his full height, “They have been ready for weeks, Master. The planned assault on Gondolin will commence when you order it.”

“Very good, Mairon. You have done well. I have but one final request before we carry out the attack. I think that we must return to Gondolin what we have stolen, before we raze it to the ground, it is only fair.”

Sauron’s eyes widen immediately, “You mean the boy, Master? I did not know that this was what you wanted him for. Wouldn’t his delivery before our assault ruin the element of surprise?”

Morgoth waves this off, “It will only hasten their panic and crush their spirits if we time it correctly. The messenger should be naught but an hour ahead of the main bulk of my army. They will have little time to prepare, especially given the nature of their “gift”.”

“Do you plan to deliver the elf alive, Master?”

Morgoth raises an eyebrow, “Yes? I do not see why it matters. He is little more than a mewling sack of skin and bones at this point.”

Sauron bites at his lip, “My Lord, if I may offer a suggestion?”

Morgoth nods, “You may.”

“I do not think it would be our most strategic decision to deliver the prince alive. Elves have a knack for healing, and the king will want him saved, regardless of what he has done. A living prince would give them hope. I think, if you want to crush the elves’ spirits as you say, then you must return Lómion to them as a corpse. It will devastate Turgon. He will be of no mind to defend Gondolin against prospective annihilation.”

Morgoth seems to ponder this for a moment, then he says, “You make a fine point, Lieutenant, I trust your judgement. If you think Lómion should die, then it seems fitting that you should be the one to carry it out. I ask only that you leave his corpse easily identifiable to his family, so that there is no confusion regarding its intention. Do not touch his face.”

“Of course, Master. I will do just as you ask.”

“Bring Lómion to the gates in the next hour after you are done with him. The messenger will be waiting there with his servants who will aid in preparing the body for transport. Afterwards I will reconvene with you and Gothmog so that we may prepare to send out the troops. Do you have any questions?”

“No, My Lord.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

In the darkest of Angband’s dungeons, there is a cell set aside in the furthermost corner. Sauron steps in front of it, and peers inside. His fana is alight with only the lowest of embers, just enough for his lynx eyes to see. Huddled in the corner of the cell is what appears to be a pile of filthy cloth. Sauron knows better though, watching as the unkempt rags shift to reveal an elf, rolling uneasily in his sleep. He grins, and unlocks the cell door. Maeglin still doesn’t wake, even as the maia lifts him up and carries him out clutched to his chest.

Sauron brings him to an adjacent room down the corridor, one of his lower torture chambers. He places the sleeping elf upon one of the tables and walks over to his workbench to begin selecting a tool to use. He settles on a stiletto knife. It is a long, thin blade, well suited to the task of creating deep and fatal puncture wounds without much mess. It would be quick, but not too quick. He wants to watch the expression on the young elf’s face as he dies.

Sauron returns to the table and gently places his hand on Maeglin’s face. He strokes his cheek with his thumb to wake him. 

The young elf grumbles, his eyes fluttering and bleary. Weakly, he calls out, “N-Naneth?”

“No Lómion, your mother is not here.”

Maeglin stills instantly. Stiffly, he turns his head, and his eyes look straight into Sauron’s own. The recognition and utter contempt in them always surprises the maia. Most elves can’t even see him in this light, but the dark elf seems to have little trouble. Even more perplexing is the way his face screws up in anger. After seven years of this kind of treatment Sauron would expect him to be more resigned to his fate. The young elf can’t even walk. Still, he seems to hold onto something, though the maia suspects it is more akin to spite than hope.

Sauron does not understand, and he expresses this to Maeglin, “I’m afraid it is just us, elf, and our acquaintanceship is at its end. I think you would do best to accept this quietly, and not make it any harder than it needs to be.” 

These seem to be the wrong words to say though, because they cause Maeglin to sit up jerkily and paw at Sauron’s chest and arms, shoving him ineffectually with hands that can no longer grasp. His face is pulled into a sneer, and he snarls out, “Hate.. HATE YOU.” His voice is weak as a whisper, but Sauron thinks that he meant to scream. The maia presses a hand to Maeglin’s chest, and firmly pushes him back down against the table. The former prince struggles, feebly, as he has exhausted himself, and repeats in a mantra, “Hate you hate you hate you hate you hate you...” in his trailing voice.

Sauron waits for his struggles to die down before retrieving the stiletto knife. He readjusts his grip on the elf’s chest to steady him, and then, with his other hand, positions the knife below his ribcage. He slides the blade in quickly, and hears a strangled gasp as he pierces Maeglin’s heart. The elf’s entire body tenses at the sudden pain, and his thoracic muscles spasm around the intrusion. Sauron presses the blade all the way in to the hilt, then deftly slides it out.

Quickly, Sauron sets the knife down, and moves to watch Maeglin’s face. The young elf’s eyes are wide, and his breaths come in short, shallow gasps. He looks like he is in disbelief, like he doesn’t understand. Sauron likes that, because he doesn’t understand either. 

The dying elf is still cognizant enough to catch sight of the maia in the corner of his vision, and he turns his head to watch him. His gaze seems searching, like he is looking for someone else. Sauron is tempted to tell him that his mother or his uncle or whoever he is pleading for will never be able to save him now, but he keeps his mouth shut, and watches as the realization dawns on the boy’s face anyway. Finally he sees those watery dark eyes fill with tears, and his gasps transform into choked sobs.

Maybe it was hope.

Quickly, his quiet whimpering tapers off into silence, and the glint behind his despairing eyes begins to fade. When Maeglin’s eyes slip closed, his breathing has already ceased.

It takes two minutes and seventeen seconds for Maeglin Lómion to die. Sauron knows, because he counted. It is impressive, considering his body condition. Many elves would never have held on so long. Sauron thinks he was desperate not to go. But that does not matter, because Maeglin is dead anyway.

Sauron returns to his workbench to put the stiletto knife back. A butcher knife catches his eye though, and reminds him why exactly he told Morgoth Maeglin should die. He lifts the butcher knife up, and steps back to the table. He begins to carve lettering into the dead elf’s chest, as neatly and precisely as he can. 

When Sauron is finished, he puts the butcher knife back, then returns to the table to lift Maeglin into his arms again. He walks out into the corridor, and heads for the stairs. When he meets the messenger at Angband’s gates, he is fifteen minutes early. 

The dark rider is already retreating far off into the distance by the time Lord Glorfindel and his guard even get within firing range. Some of them demand that they be allowed to chase him down, but Glorfindel knows that is hopeless, because the horseman would not be here unless their location was already compromised.

Instead he sends half of his guard back into the city, ordering them to alert the king and the other lords that they must prepare for an invasion. Glorfindel eyes the stained cloth sack the rider left on the ground in his wake, and tells the retreating guard to bring Loremaster Pengolodh to the seventh gate.

When the loremaster arrives, he is running past the open gate faster than Glorfindel has ever seen him move before. He stops before the lord and bends down to catch his breath, sputtering, “What in blazes is going on out here?”

“Gondolin has been discovered by the Enemy. A dark horseman arrived just minutes ago, and left this sack upon our doorstep. I have already alerted King Turgon and my fellow lords. I called you here because I fear this item may be enchanted, and because it is addressed to King Turgon in a language I do not recognize. I was hoping you could look it over for me. I know the situation is dire, and if it were any other sort of _gift_ from the Enemy I would ignore it. But, I cannot. The shape and size of the package is… rather unambiguous.”

If Pengolodh is surprised, he does not show it, “Aye, that is definitely a body. Let me have a look at it.” The loremaster steps lightly over to the bagged corpse and crouches so that he can cast his hand over it. After a moment of concentration he sighs, and says, “There is no enchantment, it is safe to touch.”

“Can you read the text as well? What language is it?” 

“Yes, I can read it. It is Black Speech.”

Glorfindel shifts on his feet, “What does it say?”

“I am obviously not fluent, but I will translate it to Quenya as best as I can. It says: _Elf-King Turgon, what you have sent to me, now I have returned. I thank you for your generosity, but I have no need for it now. Signed, Melkor Bauglir, Lord of Arda_ ”

Pengolodh purses his lips, and looks up at Glorfindel, shaking his head. The two exchange a knowing glance.

“We.. need to bring him to King Turgon,” says Glorfindel.

“Are you sure that is wise?”

Glorfindel sighs, “Perhaps not, but he is the king, and he deserves to know. This is the only closure he is ever going to get.”

Pengolodh looks very weary at that moment, “Very well. Do you need help carrying him?”

Glorfindel pauses, his eyes downcast, “No, he is.. _was_ a small elf. I will be fine. Thank you for offering Pengolodh.”

The loremaster just nods, and Glorfindel steps forward to scoop the body into his arms. While they are walking back into the city, Pengolodh says, “King Turgon and the other lords are currently in the throne room holding an emergency meeting. I think it would be best for you to wait out in the hall while I alert Turgon, we do not want to make a scene.”

“Of course.”

When they arrive outside the throne room, the meeting has already adjourned. Pengolodh steps in front of Glorfindel, and none of the grim-faced lords see what he is holding as they walk past them. A few give them odd looks, but none of them say anything. After they have all left, Pengolodh enters the throne room, and requests that Turgon step closer to him. The king’s furrowed brows rise when he sees that Pengolodh looks more solemn than panicked. 

“Yes, Loremaster? What is it? What would you need to tell me that could not be said in front of the lords?” 

“It.. is a private matter, my king. It is not something I believe any others should know about unless you will it, not now at least. You know that a dark rider left a cloth sack in front of the seventh gate, correct?

Turgon nods, “I am aware.”

Pengolodh braces himself, “Have they also told you that the sack cloth contains a body, and that it is addressed to you, my king?”

Turgon’s eyes widen, “No Pengolodh, they did not? Do you know who’s body is in the sack? Have you opened it? Is it an elf?”

Pengolodh’s voice wavers, “Yes, my king, we know who it is. He is an elf. We knew by what was written on the sack.”

“Who is it? Loremaster, whose corpse did they leave on my doorstep?” 

When the record keeper is silent Turgon grabs him by his shoulders and booms, “PENGOLODH,” he waits a beat, then says, much quieter, “Is my nephew dead?”

Pengolodh simply turns and calls out, “Glorfindel, please bring him in.”

The other elf steps into the throne room from the hall, and Turgon’s hands fall from Pengolodh’s shoulders as he shakily steps forward. Glorfindel and Turgon meet in the middle of the throne room, and the king places a hand upon the cloth. His eyes trace over the writing on the bag, and he says, “What does it say?”

Pengolodh comes up behind him and places a hand on his shoulder. He recites Morgoth’s note. Turgon nods, and he is very quiet. Pengolodh can feel him trembling underneath his hand.

“Have you opened it, already?” 

Glorfindel speaks first, “No, my king. We have not.”

“Then how are you sure it is him?”

“We are not, but we do not know who else it could be. We thought it would be best if you were the one to identify him.”

Turgon sighs, “Yes.. yes that is true,” he takes a deep breath, and says, “I would like you two to leave me here alone with him, now. Pengolodh, you must go to the House of the Wing, that is where my daughter Idril and Lord Tuor are evacuating civilians. Glorfindel, the other lords are currently gathered in the armory, they will receive you there.”

Glorfindel delicately places the body into Turgon’s arms. Pengolodh moves to stand by his side, and both elves bow before retreating out into the halls. 

Once Glorfindel and Pengolodh are gone, Turgon gently sets the body down upon the marble floor of the throne room. He kneels before it and shakily grasps at the drawstrings of the bag. He pulls them loose, and opens it.

When he pulls the bag down, he is met with the thin, discolored face of a young nér. He chokes back a sob, because it is undoubtedly Lómion. Turgon knows this, even though his eyelids are bruised and half-lidded and his face is ghastly pale. Lómion does not look like he is sleeping. Turgon so badly wants to jerk his head away, to avert his eyes. But he doesn’t, because this is Lómion. His nephew, Aredhel’s son. The bright-eyed boy who presented him with Glamdring and Orcrist on his begetting day many years ago. The boy who was so eager to please, so eager to be seen as worthy, to be loved. 

Where did he go wrong?

He should have paid more attention, he thinks, because something was _wrong_ . He doesn’t understand why his nephew would run off like that, he was never reckless before. But, Lómion was young, and resistant to coddling, because he didn’t want the other lords to think he was given special treatment. So Turgon tried to give him his space. Lómion was someone who wanted to be judged by his own merits. Was- _was._ Because Lómion is not anyone now.

Eru, he was so young. It was easy to forget at times, because he was so precocious, but he _was._ It was all in his eyes. Turgon can remember when he turned one hundred and forty-four like it was yesterday.

Turgon cannot hold back his sobs when he realizes that he has known Lómion longer than his mother ever did. When he realizes that it is his fault that Lómion is dead, and that he did not keep his promise to Aredhel to protect him. And what is that, but a broken oath?

But, Turgon does not avert his eyes, does not get up from the floor, and he does not run from his own throne room so that he does not have to face this. He does not do these things because he is Lómion’s uncle. 

Instead, he gently pulls the body all the way out of the filthy rucksack. Turgon gathers Lómion in his arms, and kicks the infernal thing away. He cradles the dead nér in his arms, and rocks him. He presses a kiss to the top of his head, and buries his face in the boy’s hair. Lómion let him do this once, on the night that his mother died. He can almost pretend that they are back there again, and that Turgon still has time to change things. But Lómion’s skin is too cold, and his frame is too thin. He is dressed in torn rags that he would have never worn in life. Lómion is dead, and Morgoth is coming for them all.

Turgon pulls his head up after a minute, and looks down. When he sees TRAITOR carved into his nephew’s ruined chest in stately Quenya, his face crumbles and he pulls the body in even tighter, wracked with full-body sobs.

Turgon never leaves the Tower of the King.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry


End file.
